So a woman walks into a bar
with an empty stage
near the back door. She sees a saint
who looks like Willie Nelson

knocking back a shot, decides to ask him
to grant her a wish. “Please, please, please
oh messenger of God, please
let me win the lottery.” No

response. He orders another. She leaves.
Comes back the next night. Same saint, same
question—same silence.
The next night—all the same. Finally,

on the evening of a full moon, she enters
the bar to find the saint sitting on a stool
on the stage with a beat-up, old Gibson
Advanced Jumbo. She begins again, “Please,

please, oh messenger. . .” He interrupts her—“You know,
when I think of saints, I think of
Jay Farrar. Oh, and baby, would you be willing
to buy a ticket this time?”